


Mercy

by airspaniel



Category: Tin Man (2007)
Genre: M/M, Punishment, Sensory Deprivation, Suicidal Thoughts, Trapped
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-17
Updated: 2007-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-19 12:38:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/200924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airspaniel/pseuds/airspaniel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Senses failing, and what it means to be merciful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mercy

**Author's Note:**

> In a dark and disturbing mood today, and I wrote accordingly. Also, I'm rubbish at summaries. Comments/crit always appreciated! ^_^

It may have been days. Maybe months, years, decades, an eternity of standing in tight merciless confines, with only the sound of his own harsh breath to keep him company.

But he could still see. And he was alone. So entirely alone.

He was going to die here, in this cell no bigger than his body, wasting away slowly. Losing taste first (the stale copper tang of his own blood would leave him), or perhaps smell (the blood and the fear-sweat and the cold horrible steel scents would leave him), and after that it would just be a matter of time. His harsh breathing and soft sobbing would be lost to him, and his body would no longer be able to feel those sharp points of contact and slick, smooth expanses of metal; the suit as it held him in a cruel and tender embrace.

But still he would be able to _see_. And when the colors seeped out of his vision, his senses deadened and dulled; then he would stare at the same forest in black and white. And stare, and stare, and stare until he died.

He laughs aloud and the sound startles him, pushes him as far back against the metal as he can get. Is it even _possible_ to die in the suit? No one has ever gone back to look. And then what would he be?

He would still be able to see.

Maybe, and the thought paralyzes him with fear, maybe it's only been a few minutes. Maybe, in the suit, time does not pass as it should, and it's been mere moments since Cain closed him in.

Cain.

Cain should have killed him. Should have taken the blade or his gun or his bare _hands_ and just put an end to him. Beaten him and left him to die like the mongrel he is.

Hadn't he deserved it? Hadn't he done enough? He had spared the man's family; surely _that_ was worth a little mercy. Worth enough to let him lie down and be done with it. Worth enough to let him just _close his eyes_.

It was easy to say that Cain had done him a favor by locking him away. Easy to look at that face and know that infuriating streak of _good_ that ran so deep it would surely never let him take a life. Easy to interpret his actions as mercy.

But Zero had seen the look in the tin man’s eyes. Had seen the flint in them, the malice; had seen the nearly imperceptible upward flick at the corner of that wide mouth as his casket banged deafeningly shut, and locked with a soft click and the slide of two iron pegs.

Cain had enjoyed it. Cain had known that death would have been the far less painful path, and Cain had _reveled_ in his fear. Cain had smiled at him, so damnably pleased to see his justice done.

And Cain had left him.

He hears his breath coming short and fast, feels his heart pounding against his ribs and knows he’s hyperventilating. But there is no such thing as unconsciousness here.

Cain had left him. Just like everyone left him. And he can’t even tell if it’s been minutes or months. The forest looks exactly the same.

He clenches his hands (not into fists, for there isn’t room in the suit) and concentrates, willing his body to still and his mind to focus. Since he cannot close his eyes, cannot see anything but the cursed forest beyond, he tries to remember sensations. Tries to remember the wind whipping past his face as he rides on horseback, the cool silk of water through his fingers, the sweet satin feeling of a woman’s skin against his own.

The only feeling he can recall is a man’s hand at his wrist, strong and callused, holding a little too tightly to be kind. That same hand and its partner sliding firmly up his forearms, making the soft hairs there stand on end; then gripping his biceps hard enough to bruise as they shoved him back into this metal prison.

Cain’s hands. They had been so hot, and so rough. And he would give anything to feel them again. To _feel_ again.

Something moves in his field of vision and he holds his breath. The movement coalesces into a hat and coat, and he’s hallucinating. He _must_ be. His fragile memory is playing tricks on him, making him see what he desires, and in a moment he will return to himself and the forest will be the same.

The forest is the same, empty and still, but there is a noise at his side; the dull ringing scrape of metal moving on metal, and his hands begin to tremble.

It isn’t. He’s not. He _can’t_ be.

The noise ceases then moves to his other side, and it’s true, then. And now his whole body is shaking violently.

A soft click, his imprisonment in reverse, a groan of hinges instead of a bang, and daylight meets his eyes unfiltered for the first time he can remember.

But he still can’t move, still can’t close his eyes, and tears run freely down his face; their travel unhindered by lids or lashes.

“Enjoyed your stay?” Cain half-laughs, and he should be infuriated. He should want to take his fists and beat that smirk off the other man’s face until those ice-blue eyes swell shut and he stops laughing for good.

But oh, it’s a voice, a sound other than his own frantic breath; and he’s not alone. Not anymore.

“You,” Zero’s voice is rusted, and cracks. “You came back.”

Cain stands, strong and impassive, meeting Zero’s desperate eyes with his own, level and cold. “I’m a better man than you.”

It’s not true. It’s not _true_ because a good man would have let him die. A good man would have slit his throat, shot him in the head and spit on his grave and let him _rest_.

“I didn’t say I was a good man,” Cain replies to the words Zero hadn’t known he’d said aloud. “Just better than you.”

The silence stretches so long and so thick that Zero is convinced he’s still trapped; still held in bands of iron. He closes his eyes and… He _closes his eyes_ and the relief of it drives him to his knees. He sprawls there at Cain’s feet, back bent and eyes closed as if in supplication. The grass is cool on his fevered skin and he’s moving before he’s aware of it, hands scrabbling at the fabric of Cain’s trousers as he grabs the man; wraps tight arms around his waist and presses his wet face against his stomach.

Cain takes a surprised step back, but Zero holds on. His tears have soaked the soft material under his cheek, and he can feel the heat of Cain’s flesh, so close.

“Touch me,” he whispers, broken and begging. “Please, Cain. _Please..._ Please just let me know you’re real.”

He sobs harder, body wracked with the effort, and does not quiet until finally, _finally_ a broad hand comes to rest on his head; smoothing his hair back as if in benediction.

Cain’s hand strokes him awkwardly at first, but gently; the softness of his touch at odds with the steel of his demeanor and the harsh contact of their last meetings. Zero clutches at him, hands fisted in the back of Cain’s shirt, and breathes in so deeply.

“You came back,” he repeats, and as soon as he’s said it, the meaning begins to sink in. She’s dead, gone, there’s no place left for him now, he’s still a condemned man, now more than ever, and there’s no going back…

He rests his forehead against the sharp leather of Cain’s belt, quiet and resolute, and Cain pulls away. He adjusts his shirt, his coat, and tugs his hat down to shadow his eyes.

“Go home, Zero. Justice is done. Just…” and it seems as if his voice might weaken. “Just go home.”

“How?” Zero sighs, still on his knees, past bargaining and so very tired.

“You could click your heels together and hope for the best.” Cain deadpans. “Or you could take responsibility for once. Come back to Central City and help repair the damage you’ve done.”

Zero manages a weak chuckle, “Doesn’t sound like home to me.”

Cain turns away then, averting his eyes in what looks like disappointment. “Then do what you feel is right, Zero. I’m done with you.”

He starts to walk away, a broad black silhouette in the still blinding light, and Zero curls to the ground; wanting so badly to touch him again, for whatever that means.

He watches Cain leave for the last time. Watches until long after the man disappears over the horizon. Minutes, hours, years… it doesn’t matter anymore that he can’t tell the difference.

The metal in his hand is still warm from the heat of Cain’s body, and it fits perfectly in the curve of his palm. He wonders if the man noticed him take it; how long it will take him to realize that it’s gone.

Perhaps he knows. Perhaps Cain is a good and merciful man, after all.

His hand is steady as he raises the gun to his temple.

There’s no place like home.


End file.
